


Razzle Dazzle

by BurgerBurgerBurger



Category: 6 Underground (2019)
Genre: Drinking & Talking, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sharing a Bed, curse you michael bay, they had six minutes of screen time together and this is what happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurgerBurgerBurger/pseuds/BurgerBurgerBurger
Summary: Two almost says something sharp and prickly about gratitude not being required for doing her job, but Five is sensitive, and for some reason that factors into her responses now.
Relationships: Five | Amelia/Two | Camille (6 Underground)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40





	Razzle Dazzle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buber/gifts).



> This is not a good movie. But Two (Camille) and Five (Amelia) are extremely attractive and you can't expect me, a simple lesbian, to not respond to a request for them to be fanfic canonized. Thanks for making me watch this terrible movie for the hot chicks, Bipbip.
> 
> PS - I'm taking great liberties with what limited canon there is, and am retconning every heterosexual thing that happened in this film because I hated them. Thank you.

> **Dazzle camouflage** was a family of ship camouflage used extensively in World War I. Unlike other forms of camouflage, the intention of dazzle is not to conceal but to make it difficult to estimate a target's range, speed, and heading.

* * *

"I like dogs," Five says, stirring her cocktail with a straw. She ordered a Mai Tai unironically at their favorite speakeasy, the one that One complains about for being too expensive, the unrepentant cheapskate that he is. Five's drink is colorful and sweet with two cherries, an orange, and slice of pineapple garishly poking past the rim. "It's not a secret."

Two blinks, rerolling her jacket sleeve. She thinks it was a German Shepherd in Brno that she outran in 2014, its fur short and inky black, its bite far worse than its bark. Jagged scars run the length of her left calf where the canine's canines caught up to her. The injury felt more like a bullet wound than some actual gunshots she'd survived.

"I prefer cats," she replies.

"But cats don't love you, you know? Not the same way. Dogs are happy to see you come home every single day."

_Some dogs aren't very happy to see you when you break into private property_ , she thinks but does not say.

The two of them sit in a curved booth at a private back table made of dark maple, the air heavy with smoke around them. There's no live music at The Pleamar on a Tuesday night, but experimental jazz plays from the speakers behind the bar and it's a nice evening for a drink. The boys all offered excuses for why they wouldn't attend, but that mattered not at all to Two, who was going to go with or without company. Five insisting that she join her on their first solo outing was merely a bonus.

Five scoots closer, reaching across the table for the napkin on which Two's cognac glass sits. She slides it toward her without breaking eye contact, as if daring Two to stop her, which she does not. Her neon purple dress plunges low on her chest, the pineapple pattern stretching as she moves. Two admires the view for only a moment before shifting her eyes to the bar. Every outfit in Five's closet is gaudier than the last, but the brightness of it suits her.

"Dogs are excessive."

"I like excessive," Five smiles. She sips at the cognac, always served neat, with a naughty glimmer in her eyes, proud of herself for having overtly stolen a taste.

Two isn't sure why she argues, or bothers with the conversation at all; she's never had a pet before, and certainly won't have one now. Other than Wally, the great drooling beast she patently ignores at the Haunted House. She reaches for Five's Mai Tai, blanching at the sugar content, then immediately returns it.

"To be fair, the word you yelled in Florence was "puppies". There is a different connotation."

"Well forgive me for not referring to the animals we nearly flattened by their breed and age. Two French Bulldogs, approximately four years old." She slurps deeply from her straw, but, unexpectedly, does not return Two's double old fashioned glass. "If you recall, I was performing emergency surgery and shortly thereafter your blood was in my mouth. Have you forgotten? I certainly haven't."

The bullet wound still pains her at night every time she rolls off of her back, an electrified spiderweb across her skin. Yesterday she slipped in the shower and steadied herself against the tiled wall on impulse, arms thrusting forward, the sudden tautness of her injured stomach enough to make her retch.

"I have not forgotten."

Five pops a cherry into her mouth, chewing with a frown. "Never said thank you either."

Two almost says something sharp and prickly about gratitude not being required for doing her job, but Five is sensitive, and for some reason that factors into her responses now. Instead she sighs and closes the gap between them in the booth, then reaches for her glass. They sit side-by-side, elbows brushing like they did in the back seat of Six's car, this time with significantly less blood and fewer bullets.

"Thank you," she says, and takes a sip of her cognac.

Five shifts to face her fully, her chin resting in the palm of her right hand, the fingertip of her pinkie finger grazing her lips. There is a distinctly flirtatious look to her that Two isn't certain she understands, perhaps simple wishful thinking on her part, or dehydration, drink, and delirium. Two doesn't much care to analyze it, if only because Five is twice as good to talk to and ten times as good to look at as her other colleagues.

"Who just drinks straight cognac?" Five asks.

"I do."

"How incredibly French of you." She removes the straw from her empty Mai Tai, and sticks it in Two's glass.

"You can't drink cognac from a straw," says Two with growing horror.

"Watch me."

Two mirrors her body language sans the straw, one elbow on the table, lazily propping up her chin. She heaves another sigh, "This is criminal."

"I'm helping you. As your doctor, you should probably not be drinking alcohol. As your teammate," she smiles, "do you want another round?"

"I do. You drank all of mine."

"I was helping." Five crosses her arms, rubbing her hands against her biceps. Her fingernails are painted royal blue today. "It's cold in here. Think they can make me a Hot Toddy?"

"Here," says Two, removing her black jacket. "I don't need this."

Five slides into the jacket immediately, hunching down like a burrowing rabbit. "Thank you. That's awfully kind of you, warming it up and everything for me."

Two doesn't blush anymore, her history has deadened her reaction to that sort of thing, but the way Five speaks makes her feel like she should, or could've fifteen years ago.

"Do you really want a Hot Toddy?"

"Mhmm," she gives a coy nod. 

"All right."

And they stay for more drinks than they should, a different one each time for Five, cognac every round for Two, and discover that beer is the absolute worst through a straw, but an Old Fashioned isn't so terrible if you suck on an orange slice first. Both of them are dizzy and grinning when The Pleamar shuts down and the bartender reminds them to close their tab, cash only of course, and they realize they need a ride.

She leaves the finagling to Five, who could get anyone to do anything, and holds the burner phone up against her shoulder so they can both listen to Four whine about the hour, as if he isn't still awake playing Horizon Zero Dawn or Tomb Raider.

As she helps Five out of the booth, she is quite convinced that the brunette is her negative photo: a quirky, affectionate, unpredictable woman who needs friends to survive, and the warm hand currently resting on her thigh in the backseat of Four's car is a testament to her sociability. They stumble into the Haunted House together, ignoring his pleas for them to drink water.

"Good night, Two," she says, leaning out of her bedroom doorframe as she kicks off her Louboutins.

"Good night, Five." She looks up at the brunette, far taller than she is even without the added benefit of heels, and adds, "I want that jacket back eventually."

Five purses her lips, and just as she closes the door she hums, "I'll think about it."

Two lingers a moment longer by Five's door, still smiling in her subdued way, before her feet carry her to her own room in a comfortable, fuzzy daze.

* * *

The Haunted House is the bastard love child of a techie's wet dream and a Silicon Valley dormitory, but Two would be lying if she said the massive, hollowed out plane hadn't begun to feel like home somewhere along the way.

She realized it first when she returned from Vegas, excited and agitated after her mission, and in desperate need of a fuck. Her predictability would bite her one day, she knows, but today she's been pent up on a plane after a beautifully executed assassination and she plans to be home just long enough to set down her luggage before heading out to hunt for a willing party. She knows a few clubs with pounding house music and girls in short skirts, and that suits her just fine.

But then there is Five, awake later than usual, sitting on the living room sofa in an oversized green sweater so large it covers her shorts, her bare legs tucked beneath her. There is a mug of steaming jasmine tea on the end table, and a dog-eared paperback in her lap. Her dark brown hair falls out of a messy bun, and she peers up at her from the rim of her glasses.

"Glad to have you back," she smiles. "I heard it went well."

Two narrows her eyes. She probably shouldn't fuck her teammate, especially not one as emotionally available as Five, but now she certainly wants to. This is how it works for her: a binary on/off switch of sexual desire. She doesn't want the entanglement or the romance or the responsibility, or anything else that could compromise her status. But every so often the veneer cracks and she needs a body beneath her own, just to recharge, just to vent. Nothing more. 

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Five asks. She glances down at her chest, then holds out the sweater for better visibility, showing off some kind of cartoon dinosaurs on it. She grins, "It's Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I found it at the thrift store."

And as she stares down at her, something in Two abruptly shatters into feather-soft pieces that she can't spit out cleanly, a desire to be buried by Five and her sweetness and her hideous sweater. She isn't going to wait for a stranger, she's not sure she _wants_ a stranger anymore, but she doesn't feel careful in the ways that matter either. She wants Five and all her inconsistencies.

_Please be queer._

"I want to fuck you," Two says lowly. The words are so inelegant and awkward that she flinches at herself, but they aren't untrue and at least she can give her some measure of honesty, come what may. She wouldn't be able to hide it for long anyway, not this boiling tea kettle in her chest, whistling away all her secrets.

There is a long pause, the only sound Seven's death metal faintly rumbling down the hall. Five removes her glasses, folding the frames with a _click_ and says, "Wow."

Two shifts her weight, aghast at the incongruity between her feelings and the expression of them, like she put a filter in her brain that rooted out all sensible thoughts. She should have found a stranger. Five deserves better, assuming she would take a woman into her bed at all.

"You can say no," she blurts.

"I did not say _no_ , I said _wow_." She rises from the sofa with a furrowed brow, her sweater swishing against her tan thighs. "Are you feeling all right?"

Two doesn't know how to answer that. She inhales deeply, "What does wow mean?"

She remains completely still as Five searches her face, taking stock of every tension and tic. The doctor lays her palm on Two's forehead, checking for a nonexistent fever, then presses her fingertips to the pulse of her neck. Two suppresses the rising wildfire of skin-on-skin, willing her heartbeat and breathing to slow the way they taught her in the CIA. As she stares back at Five's high cheekbones she thinks, _It's not so different, whatever this is and being tortured._

"I asked you first: are you feeling all right?"

"I feel fine," she lies.

With Five standing this close her body burns like lit-fuse dynamite, and she can smell the jasmine tea on her breath, more alluring than any perfume. And then there is that look Five had when they sat so close at the bar: a truth-or-dare flirtation in her hooded eyes. Two isn't going to wonder anymore; she needs to know. She takes her firmly by the waist, pulling her closer, and relishes the way her breath catches as if she wants it too. Her fingers hook through Two's jean belt loops like thread through the eye of a needle.

"What does wow mean?"

"Wow means," Five's voice is throaty and stilted, "I was surprised that you wanted this. From me. I just need to know that you're okay. Before anything... happens." 

Two weeks ago she was gut shot through a window in Florence then scooped out the eyeball of an Italian mafioso as she bled out. She nearly died, they all did, and Six paid the price for their escape with the forklift's tine spearing through his chest, unceremonious and unmerciful, its edge stopping inches from her own face. She remembers the choked groan from her lips, and the way Five held her hand, both of them grimy with her blood in the backseat of that awful lime green Giulia Quadrifoglio.

"It's okay, it's okay," Five repeated in her ear, a terrified mantra. "We're okay."

And when the mission was done, Five donned her gloves again for Two's blood transfusion in the medical bay, impressing her with the accuracy of her needlework. She'd lost count of how many nurses struggled to find her small veins over the years, even under her milk-pale skin. But Five had no issue, and talked the whole time about some book she was reading and how reckless it was to drive through that museum and how she shooed Three away repeatedly, and when Two's body was truly on the brink of collapse, she allowed herself to sleep. When she woke hours later the doctor was still there, curled up in a chair, fast asleep.

Two tilts her head, her eyes soft, "Are you a psychiatrist now too?"

"No, but," Five says, swallowing thickly as Two's fingers drag along her collarbone beneath the neckline of her sweater, "your mental health can affect your physical health."

"It's doing that right now." Her hands lower to the sweater's hem, tugging it up slowly to reveal blue and yellow polka-dot boy shorts underneath, the cotton soft against her fingertips. She rests her thumbs in the elastic waistband and grazes the warm skin of her hips.

Five closes her eyes, her long lashes brushing against Two's hairline. She huffs a laugh, "Being horny is not a mental illness."

"I don't know, doctor, I'm feeling pretty sick." Two doesn't know where these words are coming from. She doesn't flirt, she doesn't _need_ to flirt, and she isn't certain when this delicate-touch foreplay became less annoying and more exhilarating despite it not fixing her immediate problem.

"I thought you and Three," her words trails off as she pulls back, her eyes open and concerned.

"No," Two breathes, pulling her close again. Her lips graze the long line of her neck. "He's just my friend." The word slips out of her before she can correct to _coworker_ but she's distracted and Five is content enough with her response that one of her hands slides up the back of her neck, beneath Two's blonde hair, and she nearly shivers from tingling sensation along her spine. 

"Does wow mean yes?"

Five answers with her lips, tilting her head down until wispy brown hair falls into Two's eyes, and kisses her softly. It's not the sort of clash of teeth and tongue Two is used to, biting in seedy alleys and bar bathrooms where she never learns names and everything is uncomplicated, quick, and trivial. But Five is none of those things.

_No kissing,_ she almost says because that's her rule, the unbreakable one that keeps her on-target and uncompromised. But as she pulls away from Five's soft lips, she cannot bring herself to say it; she doesn't want to follow that rule today.

"Wow means yes," Five breathes, half against her cheek. She cradles Two's head and kisses her again, slow and deep, her tongue parting her lips with fervent need, and Two cannot tell if the moan that escapes her is from relief or arousal or the most desperate combination of both.

She guides her by the hips to the sofa, pulling Five down into her lap, her fingers roaming up her legs and back, delighting in the soft skin beneath her sweater. Five puppets Two's hand up to her breasts, and whimpers into her mouth as she rocks her body forward. She ignores the pain of her injury as her fingers glide lower, a delicate trail over Five's underwear, and she can already feel the promise of her wetness.

"Wait," Five whispers breathlessly. "Not in here. They'll catch us."

"What a treat for them," Two says, but she stills her hands.

Five scoffs, "They can find treats on the internet. You're the only one who gets a piece of this."

Five bites her lower lip, as if she knows the importance of her words and it surprises her to speak them too, or like she can see the way they resonate in Two's chest like radar pings trying to find her very concealed heart. This admission that she is special, _exclusive_ , is not at all what she was looking for, but sacrificing her rules and detachment for the chance to keep that sensation a second longer seems a fair price to pay.

She shoves the thoughts aside and says, "My room's closer."

Five pulls her to her feet, leaving her skin chilled in the space her warm body once occupied. But it's as if she can't make it down the hallway without renewing their contact: her tongue on Two's neck, her hands squeezing her ass over her jeans as she arches her back. Five pulls her in not once but twice for deep kisses, moaning into her mouth, and yanks off her shirt. She knocks some haphazardly-wired gadget off the walls with a clatter, summarily ignored. Two steps out of her pants as they pass the door, only pausing for Five to kiss a line between her breasts to her belly button, craving more.

Two nudges her past her luggage toward the bed as she peels off her green sweater, pushing her down into the pillows. She crawls atop her, ignoring the burning stretch of her gunshot wound, and pins one of Five's hands to the mattress. She slides her thigh between her legs and groans in abrupt agony: her stitches pull hard against her skin.

"No," Five places her free hand on her chest. "Not like this, not with your stomach. You've got great abs, don't get me wrong," she licks her lips, "I could stay here all day, but you're still hurt. You lost a lot of blood."

Two opens her eyes, recovering from the pain, and smirks, "I'd say a shitton."

Five drags her fingers through a field of straight blonde hair, lightly scratching her scalp. "I see how it is. You only admit I'm right when you have me in bed."

"Something like that." She nips at the base of Five's ear, holding her down as she grinds against her.

"We need to be gentle."

"I like it rough."

For a second Five looks unhappy despite her flushed cheeks and swollen lips, so Two stops moving all together, worried she's ruined it and even more worried that she's concerned in the first place. Five reads her face a moment longer before she pushes against her shoulder, certainly not strong enough to actually roll her off, but Two lets herself be guided slowly to the bed.

"Lay down for me," she says. They trade places, and Five is careful not to disturb her wound.

Two closes her eyes, unused to this undivided attention. The vulnerability of it all frightens her a little but she doesn't want to stop, and the feeling of Five's lips and hands on her skin is nothing short of exquisite. "This isn't," she quietly says, "how I usually do this." 

"Do you want me to stop?" Five murmurs, cheek resting on her leg.

"No," Two says. "Please don't stop." She is a straightforward woman. She can give her honesty.

Five flashes that smile again, hungrier this time, and her mouth is hot and wet as she leisurely kisses the inside of her thigh, pushing aside her underwear with a lascivious moan of appreciation for every inch of Two's body.

Five is a doe-eyed creature, much too tender and gentle for her, and Two realizes at once as she throws her head back and gasps in her first taste of ecstasy that she's made a terrible mistake, and has lost control entirely.

* * *

The switch, somehow, does not flip back to the off position, and Five- _Amelia_ , she has to remind herself- does not become any more predictable. After Hong Kong she grows insatiable and clingy and, quite unexpectedly, Camille finds herself wanting more of her doting affection and stolen glances, even at the cost of being spotted by the others.

Two- _Camille_ now, though she still thinks of herself as Two more often than not- was a drowned rat after the stunt with the pool, and her gunshot wound reopened when she swung from the chandelier, and at least one rib broke slamming it against that I-beam. She was drenched and dizzy by the time she and Javier made it to the getaway car and, if the blood on her left forearm was any indicator, she'd been grazed by a bullet at least once.

Amelia kissed her countless times in the back of the black Suburban- her knuckles, her cheek, her shoulder- and she cried while she did it, overtly terrified that they might have left Camille as easily as they almost left Billy. She didn't know how to comfort her except to let herself be kissed, and to hold her hands when they weren't roaming her body, checking for injuries.

It frightened Camille that she mattered so much to her, that Amelia didn't bother to hide her unsteady breathing or the tears staining her lime green dress. From the rearview mirror One watched them, and for once in his life he stayed silent.

But now they're home a week after that awful night, and they lay intertwined in Amelia's plush bed, which is far better decorated and maintained than Camille's own, equipped with expensive sheets, massive pillows, and a soft blue duvet. Camille could give One- he never did reveal his actual name- some credit: he wanted them to be comfortable in the Haunted House. They all had enormous king sized beds and near-bottomless bank accounts without paper trails to deplete however they chose, and Amelia spent that money on filling her closet and decorating her bedroom.

"No, mm-mm. If you get what you want, then I get what I want," Amelia says, pulling her gently back down to the bed. "And I want to cuddle you, _Camille_."

Camille cannot help liking the way she says her name despite the newness of it, or the way she uses it every chance she can get. She props herself up on one elbow and reaches down to brush a strand of hair away from Amelia's eyes. "I seem to recall you getting something else you wanted not that long ago."

"As if you didn't," she smiles. "Twice."

"Can't argue that."

And she really can't, so she slides beneath the sheets next to Amelia. It's late but she has nothing to do except rest and recover before they ship out again, hopefully for the last time in this ongoing Turgistan coup.

"You don't have to leave. You can sleep here."

Guilt wells up in her throat; this is the fourth time in as many nights that they've had some version of this conversation, though never this directly. What surprises Camille most about it is that she isn't annoyed by her neediness: she wants Amelia to want her. But she is a light sleeper, a poor sleeper, who often wakes with sweat and screams, and she hasn't kept another women in her bed for the night in nearly two decades. She would keep them both awake.

But Amelia strokes her back, and Camille's resolve slips away like sand through her fingers. 

As if she senses it, and she _must_ because she really can convince anyone to do anything, Amelia asks, "Maybe just stay until I fall asleep?"

"All right."

With a happy little coo Amelia presses herself closer and rests her head on her clavicle, tracing the raised line of it with her fingers. Camille can feel her smiling against her chest, and this little reward makes it a Sisyphean task to refuse her. She sighs, resigned to her fate.

She threads her arm around Amelia's shoulder, drawing little patterns on her skin as she gazes around her dark room, stopping on the gas mask dangling from the door of her closet, a bright beacon in the moonlight. It's not at all what Camille would choose to wear in her place; but then, if it's not black or white, she has no interest in it.

"Why the pink mask?"

"I never got over my Lisa Frank sticker collection as a child."

Camille huffs a laugh and Amelia adds, "I wanted to draw attention to me and not to you."

Amelia's no assassin but she has good eyes and a quick brain, and she always watches for police. With such excellent situational awareness, she'd have been difficult to catch back in her old life when she worked for the CIA. Amelia is good on the ground, very good, but something about the implication of using her as bait alights a terrified heat in Camille's gut.

But Amelia continues, her voice and hands soothing, "Just a little extra oomph for the distraction. And I really do like pink, all shades of it." She tilts her head to look at Camille, kissing the underside of her chin. "Did you know magenta's not really a color? It can't exist on the color spectrum."

Camille can barely keep up with the strange, disruptive geometry of her mind, jumping from one topic to the next with no sensible roadmap to follow. But she likes that Amelia doesn't have a box to conform to, or rules to obey. She likes her Alice in Wonderland brain and how she pulls her into the storybook so effortlessly.

"That's ridiculous," Camille chuckles. "I can see it. It's a color."

"No, really!" Amelia pops up to briefly kiss her lips, then returns to her spot nestled against her neck, her voice soft and carefree, "It can't exist on the color spectrum because it doesn't have a wavelength, so our brains just substitute some approximation there instead."

She continues on for a while about chimerical, impossible colors, Stygian blue and hyperbolic orange, but eventually trails off, her breathing so steady that Camille wonders if she's fallen asleep. She realizes now that, in this tangled position, there is absolutely no chance of her leaving the bed without waking Amelia, and suspects this was her plan all along. Camille closes her eyes and smiles faintly.

"You know you saved me in Florence."

Camille's green eyes open, her eyebrows knit together. "As I recall, you're the one who pulled a bullet out of me at 130 kilometres an hour."

"You pushed me down. My head. Before they shot at us." Amelia slides her hand across her chest and down her arm until their fingers interlace, and their bodies press even more closely. "I saw the bullet spray when we got out. They would have killed me."

She hardly remembers that moment, just a faint recollection of her shouting, "Get down!" But she was blacking out for nearly the whole ride; her only clear memory was Amelia's face, painted with an intense growl as she worked, spattered with blood. They told her later that she was as mean and accurate as ever with her pistols, and managed to assemble and fire an SMG at a blockade. Adrenaline is a magnificent gift.

"I was so scared in Hong Kong." Amelia rolls away abruptly, hiding her face, her voice shaky as she says, "I was doing nothing in the lobby, just listening, and I heard you on the comms. I didn't know if you'd get out."

_Wrong intel. Too many men._ She remembers that clearly, her back literally and figuratively against a wall. In that moment she thought that she and Javier would make fine corpses in that penthouse, their suits riddled with bullets.

She could leave now, slide out of bed and into her own room where it is quiet and she doesn't have to answer questions, and she can let Amelia sleep in peace. But she feels the emptiness where her body used to be and the gravitational pull of Amelia, this innate attraction that slides toward her as easily as a glass of cognac slides across a maple table.

"I'm sorry that I scared you," Camille whispers. She follows her to the other side of the bed, wrapping an arm around her waist, and presses a kiss between her bare shoulder blades.

_I am an honest woman,_ Camille thinks. _I am at least an honest woman. I can give her the truth._

"May I sleep here tonight?"

There is such a long pause that Camille clenches her jaw, anxious that she has missed her chance and now Amelia doesn't want her here. She isn't worth the stress and struggle.

"Wow," Amelia replies softly. She rolls back to face her with that impish smile, kissing away her confusion. "Wow means yes."

Camille laughs in her quiet way, the relief and happiness plain on her face, and pulls Amelia back against her chest. When the morning light shines through pale pink curtains they remain pressed together as tightly as ever, sound asleep. They did not move at all during the night.


End file.
